Something Amiss
by Thattallguy999
Summary: Something is Amiss in Skyrim. The World Eater has returned, but the Dovahkiin has been killed before ever being recognized leaving Tamriel without a savior. For an untold number of years the world has relied on the Elder Scrolls and the stars for prophecy. When the course of events is violated and fate is tampered with it must recover, but can it? There are clouds on the horizon.
1. Chapter 1: What was Cannon

**Chapter One**

Yorik kept his head down. His hands were bound, he was surrounded by well armed and armored men, and he had no weapon.

"You started this war," the General of the Imperials, a man called Tullius, shouted at the bound self appointed High King of Skyrim, "plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."

There was a low sound off in the distance, as if it were a distant reply on the wind. A few of the other guards and prisoners around Yorik glanced around, the prisoners nervously, the guards dressed in their shiny Imperial Plate metal curiously. Yorik paid the sound no mind, he needed to get out of here. He could _not_ be killed like this. He had come too far and there was too much riding on his life. He fought down the usual fits of desperation he suspected that most men felt while waiting in line. He had seen someone only a moment ago, a horse thief, panic and try to make a break for the gate. The man had taken off in a full sprint only to stuffed like a pincushion in the back with arrows. Yorik wasn't even sure that the thief had known in what direction the gate was. That was the trouble with these situations.

He was used to improvising, but in situations like this there were too many factors and not enough time to plan. As good as he was with many different kinds of weapons, there were just too many soldiers and any possible allies he had were all tied up at the moment. Yorik grimaced. He had lived a long life despite his youthful appearance. _All tied up_, he thought to himself. _How many times had he heard that one before…_

"Give them their Last Rites," the Imperial Captain next to General Tullius barked.

Yorik cursed inwardly, he had gotten distracted. He was nervous and wished silently to himself that he had a drink. He had been in potentially fatal situations before, but this was different. This time he may very well be powerless to stop the blow that killed him.

A woman in a hooded priests robe stepped forward. She raised her arms reverently into the air and spoke what sounded to Yorik like a well practiced speech, "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon –"

"For the love of Talos, shut up and get this over with!" interrupted one of the rebel prisoners.

"As you wish" the priestess replied curtly.

The prisoner stepped up to the block deliberately showing his willingness to die for his cause. In Yorik's mind causes were just another thing to get killed over and the way he saw it, this man was proving him right. The rebel got on his knees as the Imperial Captain put her boot on his back and shoved his head down onto the block. As he faced death, the prisoner spoke his last words, "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" And that was that. The headsman's axe came down hard and sliced cleanly through the man's neck. His head rolled forward and tumbled into the basket placed at the opposite end of the block.

Yorik looked around biting his lip in frustration. His tongue was getting dry. _There is always a way out. Damn it! Where in bloody Oblivion is it?_ Breathing deep he took in the situation again. He had been herded into a group of disarmed men stripped to nothing and given sack cloth for clothing. A few of them still wore a Stormcloak Cuirass, but Yorik was sure that was only because the Imperials hadn't brought enough sack cloth for the lot of them. He supposed he should be grateful they hadn't just make them go naked. The Empire was rigid like that. They didn't strip you naked, and let you freeze to death. They had to make sure you lived long enough to be executed as an example first. Yorik hated the bloody cold. These rags did little to protect him from it which caused him to eye the rest of the Stormcloak rebels who still wore uniforms. Ulfric, the leader of the Stormcloaks and supposed king of Skyrim, still wore his fur cloak and fine clothes. That struck him as odd. Why had he not been given rags to wear? Moreover, why was his execution not more public? Perhaps the Imperials were attempting to downplay his importance instead of publicly martyring him.

Surrounding the Stormcloak prisoners stood the heavily armored Imperial Soldiers spaced evenly around their captives to prevent escape. Down in front of the herd stood General Tullius of the Empire, his Imperial captain, the priestess of Arkay, and an unhelmeted soldier with a list. The last of that group was likely there to record the events of this day.

"You Imperial bastards!" cried a Stormcloak woman.

"Justice!" cried one of the onlookers.

Behind them on a horse sat an Emissary of the Thalmor, a powerful Nation with a mixed reputation. Yorik had no personal grievance with the Thalmor, despite their current aggressive behavior towards the continent of Tamriel as a whole, but the typical up turned nose of every High Elf he had ever come in contact with made him keep his distance. He rolled his eyes at her and looked around some more. Surrounding everyone were the city walls of Helgen, an Imperial controlled village that had been fortified against invasion. Along it's stone walls and throughout the town itself sprouted watch towers with bowmen on lookout for disturbances both outside and within the walls. That was everything he could see.

Perhaps if he could get closer to some of the nearby buildings and houses he could hide long enough to make an escape. He would need a distraction though. A big one. That would be very difficult. What could he do? Start a brawl? That would never work. There were too many guards and the prisoners themselves were all brothers in arms. It would just put him in a worse position.

"Next the Nord in the rags!" called the Captain.

Again there was another roar on the wind. It sounded closer this time. What he wouldn't give to just be able to turn into a werewolf and fight his way out. That of course wouldn't work either. He would just end up like the horse thief from before. _This is just like that time in Kvatch..._ Yorik thought._ Except this time there are no Daedra heckling me from the rooftops. _Maybe if he got a shield away from one of the guards he could deflect and avoid the arrows more effectively. It would have to be a big one though, preferably round. Yorik looked around at the surrounding guards for a shield. Most of them carried smaller diamond shaped shields plated with steel. Good for quickly deflecting a sword or an axe in close combat, but ill suited for intercepting arrows or lances.

Yorik saw another man walk up to the block garbed in the same rags that he was. He was tall with broad shoulders, and a very muscular build. It wasn't his size that made him stand out though. Yorik had seen, and killed, bigger men than this fellow before on plenty of occasions. As the man looked out at his fellow prisoners one final time something had caught Yorik's attention. It was the big man's eyes. Yorik wasn't sure that anyone else was aware of what he saw. There was something behind them. A physical and raw intensity seemed to come from them. He could feel it as though it was like a burning heat coming in waves. It was irrelevant, however, Yorik was about to witness his untimely death after all. Still in that moment it caused Yorik to take an involuntary step backwards, right into the man standing behind him. He hadn't had a reaction like that to anyone in longer than he could remember. The prisoner behind him grunted and Yorik began to stumble. A loud crash shook the earth at his feet and Yorik found himself sprawling on the ground.

"What in Oblivion is _that_?!" came General Tullius's voice as chaos ensued almost immediately.

The people around Yorik scattered, fleeing in all directions. He heard shouts and screams coming from all sides. Yorik looked around panicking. Dust and dirt had been sent into the air creating a temporary fog. It was blinding for a moment, but as the dust settled he realized that he was alone. _Well, not entirely, _he thought. In front of Yorik was a massive, black dragon. It stood there perched with one of it's scaly talons pressing down on the back of the prisoner with the eyes that had shaken him before, pinning the man to the ground. There was still a little fog in the air, black and thick. It wasn't just dirt now. It was smoke. Somewhere, maybe everywhere, there was a fire. Trembling slightly, Yorik got to his feet as quickly as he dared. The beast didn't seem to notice, or perhaps it didn't care. It was much bigger than he was and Yorik understood that he must appear as threatening as a baby kitten to the beast. Yorik kept his eyes fixed on the dragon, never taking them away, while he slowly moved backwards one step at a time. He had to get away. Now was his chance.

"Dohvahkiin." The word was deep and primal, but was spoken matter of factly. Yorik stood still. Not at the surprise of having seen a dragon, of course. He had seen dragons before, although no one was likely to believe him. The word shook him and stirred something within his mind. He had heard the stories, but despite his own experiences he had not once believed that a dragon could speak. He had learned not to rely too heavily on old stories and folklore. Dragons were just like any other beast, he had told himself. Could he be wrong? He was sure he had heard 'Dohvahkiin,' but it sounded different in his head. The dragon raised it's head inspecting the body under it's talon. A moment later a hissing sound emanated from within it's mouth as it opened its mouth revealing sharp and dangerous fangs. Without a moment's hesitation, it clamped its jaws on the man's head and tore it from his body.

The black figure looked up at Yorik now, eyes trained on his glowing red even in the daylight. The sky was growing darker, redder as if at twilight. Something was happening. Yorik decided that the sky was the least of his problems. He took his opportunity to run, hoping that wherever he ended up had a barrel of ale with his name on it.


	2. Chapter 2: What was Not

**Chapter Two**

Swan was trapped in a deep sleep. In fact, it was a sleep so deep that were one to look upon her sleeping form, they might mistake her for a dead woman. Her breaths came unnaturally slow and there was not an ounce of tension running through any of the muscles in her body. Thus was the nature of the drought she had been forcibly given. They had taken away her magicka. That was no small feat; she had a lot of it. However, poisoned though she was, it was not enough to take away her dreams.

Swan had always suspected that her dreams were unusual, but she had no desire to share this information with anyone. In fact, she had no desire to share a great many things with anyone. Before her, in the dream, were thousands upon thousands of tiny dots sparkling like the stars in the night sky. They swirled slowly together towards a central point in a vortex, creating a massive point of light in the center of the cluster. She did not know what any of it represented, but she had her theories. For a while she had thought, perhaps, that they were the dreams of other people. Sometimes she wondered if they were planets and whether or not she was viewing all of the known universe. She could almost make out various shapes and figures among the lights when she drew closer, but whenever she tried she would inevitably awaken back into the real world.

Swan sighed to herself, though she didn't know how she did it. She had no body and thus did not have the equipment to sigh, but this was not a normal place. That was not why she sighed, of course. Swan sighed because even though this was the perfect time to investigate the things that taunted her in her dreams, she knew that she had bigger issues to worry about. She needed to escape. She did not know where she was in the real world. Not any more anyway. She doubted that her body was in the same location where she had been knocked unconscious.

She should be scared, she knew, terrified even, but it was hard to be afraid in this place. She could go to other places in her dreams, but this was always where she found herself first and it was comforting to her. The lights here gave off a soft warmth and did not strain her vision. She would doubtless be terrified when she awoke but, at this moment, she felt more anxiety than fear. _Who attacked us?_ She thought. _I was on the road near the border with Calcifer and then… Nothing,_ Swan cursed at herself. _Oh Divines! Calcifer!_ Now she really was getting worried. The old Altmer she had been traveling with must have been attacked as well. Was he okay? Did he get away? Questions raced through Swan's mind like foxes being chased for sport. "The old prick had better be okay or I swear I'll trap his soul and use it to enchant a mop bucket," she growled.

Before she could finish her thought, the dream began to change around her. The lights turned a repulsive shade of red. It was deep and thick like blood. Something was wrong. She felt a ripple of some kind coming from the glowing center of the swirl. It struck her with the force of a flying mountain. When she opened her eyes, she was awake in the real world. She could smell blood.

Yorik grinned to himself as he lifted the lid of the trunk. He had taken the time while all the commotion was going on outside to search the room for useful supplies. Inside was a fresh Imperial soldier's uniform folded with typical military discipline and precision. He pulled the clothes out unceremoniously and placed them onto the wooden table next to him. "Ha!" he chuckled in a raspy voice, "First try." The air in the keep was musty from being underground. Underground complexes of this nature were a very common occurrence in Skyrim, but this one lacked decent ventilation. With a grunt he began to strip down to his undergarments, leaving his rag clothes in a wad stuffed inside the trunk.

After his encounter with the enormous black dragon outside, he had taken shelter in the first semi-fortified structure he could find. It seems that he had chosen wisely; dragons were rubbish underground. On the outside, the keep had looked like a tall cylindrical tower built of stones and mortar, connected to another building adjacent to it. When he had gone inside, however, it wasn't long before there had been stairs to take him downwards into the dug-out basement of the keep. It wasn't very far downwards, but downwards all the same. Now his main focus of concern was whether or not he had to worry about the ceiling overhead coming down on top of him. He could still hear the dragon outside roaring. Every once in a while he would hear something that sounded like a loud booming voice followed by an impact that would cause dirt to briefly spill from above him.

Yorik closed the lid of the trunk and sat down on the lid. He really hoped that these boots would fit. He had been without a decent pair of boots since he had been captured. He held one boot up to his left foot followed by another to his right. Yorik frowned down at the comparison. They were just small enough to be uncomfortable, bunching up his toes near the point. It would be enough to put him in a foul mood after a while, but they were not small enough to encumber his movement. They would have to do.

When he had finished changing he went over to one of the shelves taking care to keep his weight on his heels for now and took a bottle of Alto Wine from it. He yanked the cork out with his teeth and spat it off to the side in one fluid motion. Next he poured half the bottle onto the floor and crouched down to look at himself in the puddle he had made. He scratched at the stubble on his chin and analyzed his appearance. His hair was unkempt. That was unavoidable, but he would cover that with the helmet he had pulled from the trunk. His face was also covered in travel dirt from the road, so he dipped two fingers in the puddle of wine and attempted to wipe his face clean. It wasn't a perfect job, and he smelled like alcohol, but he would have to be satisfied with it for now. All in all it was a passable disguise. That being said, he needed to find a weapon just in case. He felt naked without one. From what he could tell, he was either in a kitchen, a cellar, or a pantry of some kind, so he doubted he would be able to find much.

Yorik hastily searched around until he found a knife made out of dull iron. He scowled, cursing under his breath. It looked like its previous owner had been using it to cut his food. He was armed with a butter knife. Still, it was better than nothing, so he tucked it into his belt.

"I need to get out of this bloody keep..." he said to himself. There was another boom from above and more dirt fell from the cracks in the ceiling. "… Before it comes down on me." He looked over the room one last time, finding two small healing potions, then left the room, going deeper into the Imperial keep.

When Swan realized where she was she immediately closed her eyes again. She was lying on the floor in a cage. That cage was in a dark room and she could smell blood. There was a noise that sounded like fighting, but it seemed very distant to Swan's ears. Her first instinct was to feel out the magicka within her. _It's gone!_ She thought. She fought down a wave of panic almost unsuccessfully. She hadn't been this disarmed since she was a child. She tried to move her hand to quietly feel out her location. She couldn't move her hand! She tried to move other parts of her body and found that they were just as limp. If she could move, she knew that she would likely be shaking out of fear.

Swan _never_ felt this exposed. Her magic was what made her special. Without it she felt powerless. _They must have given me some kind of potion_, she thought._ I don't think I was supposed to have woken up so soon._ That either meant that what had occurred in her dream had woken her up forcefully, or that the potion was wearing off. Either could be true, but whether it was or was not was irrelevant as there wasn't anything that she could do about it. She wanted to writhe on the ground, willing her limp limbs out of numbness, but the only successes she had were in her facial muscles.

_I have to be quiet, I have to be quiet,_ she repeated to herself. _If I pretend to be asleep long enough I can break out of this cage when my arms and legs wake up._ She wanted to believe that would work, but she knew that was unlikely to happen. Whomever had captured her would likely re-administer the concoction soon and she would be unconscious and powerless once again. The fighting seemed closer now. She could hear the sounds more clearly. What was going on here?

With that last thought, Swan heard a man scream and something crashed down onto the floor next to her. The room was silent. Swan felt something warm pool around her hand through the numbness. She bit down on her lower lip as tears formed in her eyes. She tried not to think about it.


	3. Chapter 3: The Path to Freedom

**Chapter Three**

_The path to freedom is often soaked with blood. In your case, however, more so than usual._ Yorik's father had said that to him often. As he entered the stone walled chamber set aside for the Imperial Inquisition, he was confronted with a grizzly scene that would validate his father's words yet again. The wall directly opposite the way he had come in was lined with thick, rusty, iron barred cages. The occupants of those cages that were in use were still, silent, and in all likelihood already dead. On the floor in front of those cages lay three fresh corpses spread out in a pool of fresh blood.

"Wonderful," Yorik muttered.

This sort of thing happened far too often in his experience. Most of the time a pile of dead bodies was an occupational hazard with his line of work. In most cases it meant trouble. He heard a coarse breathing coming from further inside the chamber. Yorik readied the butter knife in his right hand and slowly eased himself into the room as quietly as he could.

"What do you think you are going to with that?" came a voice from inside. "Make toast? By all means, I've worked up quite a hunger." He really had no talent for stealth. He never had. The voice came from an old man seated at a table near a support beam. He was located just in front of a passage that led deeper into the complex. Out of the small table next to him rose a bloody dagger stuck into it hilt up. His right arm was a bloody mess with a few cuts and scratches sliced throughout it. Most of the blood wasn't his it seemed. He wore a standard Imperial soldier's uniform, but his head was hooded which meant that Yorik could not see the man's eyes. That hood meant he was an Imperial torturer.

From his wrinkled and shriveling body Yorik guessed that the old man had honed his skills maintaining his employment with the Imperial Inquisition on those unfortunate enough to be asked 'the question.' From Yorik's perspective, the only way out of Helgen was likely through the hallway on the other side, with the only obstacle between he and it being the bloody old man on the rickety wooden chair. He hoped the disguise he wore would be enough. He didn't enjoy killing old men. It wasn't that they were too weak to fight back. In fact he would prefer an opponent who was too weak to fight back, though many would call him a coward for it. There was far too much riding on his death after all. The truth was that he had a soft spot for survivors, as he was also one himself, and old age was as much a sign of survival as one could get in this world. He cleared his throat and tried to sound lowly and deferential despite his large size and rough demeanor.

"By the gods!" Yorik asked in mock surprise. "What happened here?"

"Respect, Nord." the inquisitor commanded, irritation tinged his voice. He continued, "A few escaped prisoners found their way down here," the old man replied as if nothing was out of the ordinary. "They seemed a bit upset by how I've been entertaining their comrades. They killed my assistant."

"I see," Yorik replied, "Are you hurt sir?"

"I'm fine," the old man said curtly. "This is _my_ house. No one does anything in _my_ house without my permission. Doubly so for those wishing to leave without any of my parting gifts." That last part he muttered quietly to himself.

Yorik approached the bodies and knelt down to get a better look at them. The dead deserved a witness. There were two men garbed in the uniform of the Stormcloak rebels. They were young men. Too young. They were likely in their late teens. One had his skull smashed in on one side with chunks of his brain spilling out while the other was riddled with stab wounds and burn marks. The assistant had been carrying a spiked cudgel which meant that the second Stormcloak was likely killed by the torturer. That explained the bloody knife. Judging by those burn marks Yorik guessed that the man was something of a magic user. _Good to know, _he thought. These burns were nothing special, which indicated that he was likely either something of a novice or that he was only proficient in one or two spells. It was probably a simple lightning spell if Yorik had to guess. You could do so many painful things with electricity without killing your victim if you needed him or her alive. _Stupid kids_, he thought to himself. They'd likely sought out honor and glory by taking up a sword to fight in the Stormcloak army. Now they were dead.

The last body lying in the middle of the floor was that of the assistant. He was an older man, with the kind of creases that come with middle age on his face. He was probably in his late thirties or early forties. He was also bald on the top of his head with long streaks of greasy dark hair clumped together on the sides. _I bet you weren't very popular with the ladies,_ he thought. His face was frozen in a cross of both pain and horror. Yorik supposed it had to do with the steel short sword sticking out of the old boy's gut. The majority of the blood pooling on the floor was likely his. Most people who had never seen a corpse before would likely sick up and vomit at a grizzly scene like this, but to Yorik it was all too familiar.

Yorik looked up from the bodies and stood back up before speaking again. "My apologies, sir. I was not swift enough," Yorik said. He tried to sound sympathetic and ashamed. Dirt rained from the ceiling in trickles again. A muffled sound came from far above. The dragon was still out there wreaking havoc on the world above.

The old man was breathing slow but heavily. He must have just sat down on that rickety wooden chair when Yorik arrived. "I should think not. That one was… promising." The old man glanced at his fallen assistant. There was an awkward pause in the conversation, then the inquisitor looked directly into Yorik's eyes and asked suddenly as if just noticing something suspicious, "I don't remember you. Who is your commanding officer?"

The question surprised him, but only a little so Yorik recovered quickly. He had anticipated questions like this. He hoped the Inquisitor didn't notice his brief look of surprise however, otherwise he would have no choice but to kill him. Yorik rolled his eyes and made a harassed face while trying to sound frustrated. "Sir my name is Ulric, there is a _dragon_ attacking the keep, we need to get everyone to safety. I have orders from the top to make sure that there aren't any stragglers left behind in the fortress."

"A dragon? Please. Don't make up nonsense," the Inquisitor said condescendingly. Then as if reconsidering his thoughts he turned his head and continued, "Although, come to think of it, I did hear some odd noises coming from over there." He did not indicate where.

Yorik interjected, "I speak the truth, sir. My orders come from General Tullius himself." _That ought to do it_, he thought to himself._ Maybe he'll let me pass without asking any more questions._ Say one thing about Yorik, he was clever. All he had to do now was play his cards right. He put his knife back in his belt to show that he was nonthreatening. Little gestures like that worked wonders on the subconscious of other men.

"You didn't answer my question earlier," the torturer asked again, "Who is your commanding officer?"

Yorik was beginning to get annoyed. He probably should have just killed the old man now and been on his way. It was the smart thing to do, and it most likely wouldn't have raised any questions. He held back his impatience and didn't kill him, though. Instead he pressed the mock urgency of his orders: "I'm sorry, sir. Matters outside are unprecedented and are genuinely out of control. Our forces are in disarray and I am currently without a commanding officer. He was killed... Just a little while ago. Please, I have to make sure that everyone inside escapes as quickly as possible before this fortress collapses on top of us and our men fighting outside are nothing but char."

"Do not waste my time with your pleas and your apologies," the old man coughed. He pulled the bloody knife out of the table wiping it on a cloth he pulled from a pocket Yorik couldn't see. The old man looked at it in his hands in the torchlight. Yorik still couldn't see the man's eyes under his hood. "I get enough of that from my guests. You have my permission to leave. Now get out of here, and send someone to help me clean up this mess, will you?"

Yorik put his fist to his chest and bowed his head in salute. "Yes sir," he said. Without another word he walked towards the hallway on the far side of the room. As he moved passed the old Inquisitor, something gleamed in the dim light and caught Yorik's eye. It was too late, however, and he felt cold steel sink into his shoulder. It was the dagger the inquisitor had been fidgeting with earlier. Before the pain set in, Yorik's instincts took over and he reached for the knife at his belt with his good hand. As his fingers closed around the hilt he felt a tingling sensation near the center of his lower back. The hair in that spot was standing on end under his shirt. Yorik gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as he awaited what he knew was about to happen.

In the next instant, the room flashed white and Yorik was thrown howling face first into the wall. A hot searing pain was arcing through his whole body. Yet even as he crumpled to the ground he realized that the butter knife he had reached for was still clenched in his hand. The lightning spell that had struck him must have tightened his grip on the dull blade as it sent electricity through his body. His collision with the wall must have caused him to rip it free from his belt. He lay on the stone floor, smoking in places, nose broken, and gasping for air. His nostrils filled with the pleasant smell of cooked meat and he tasted iron leaking back into his throat. It was his bleeding nose. He was horrified as he realized that he was smelling and tasting himself. On another day he might laugh at that kind of innuendo. Right now his whole body felt as though it was on fire, and to make matters worse, he could feel the arm beneath the stab wound losing its warmth and feeling. He was losing a lot of blood very quickly. Too quickly. Yorik groaned, his vision blurry from the collision and the broken nose. He could only hear the sounds of footsteps approaching slowly and cautiously. In his experience you were at your most vulnerable in a fight when you were either on the ground or in the air. The only way to level the playing field against an opponent when you were on the floor was to put your opponent on the floor as well.

"I have a very good memory," came the satisfied voice of the inquisitor. He had the air of a wolf who had cornered it's prey. Yorik vomited as another flash lit the room and another wave of sharp pain arced through his body. "I remember the face of every man who has ever passed through these walls. You are not among them. You are not a Legion soldier and I doubt _Ulric_ is your real name. You are either a spy, or another escaped prisoner. It doesn't really matter though. You are in _my_ house now. Allow me to show you the very best of my hospitality."

Yorik heard the crackling sound of lightning coming from the inquisitor once again. With what strength he could muster Yorik rolled over as fast and as suddenly as he could and plunged his butter knife into the torturer's boot. A small amount of dark red blood bubbled out of it. This time it was his turn to howl.

Everything seemed to slow down for a moment. As the torturer toppled over backwards clutching at the knife in his foot, Yorik flung himself on top of his opponent pinning him to the ground. With his good arm, he held the hand the torturer had used to stab himself. If the torturer tried to cast any spells this close he would do more harm to himself than to Yorik. The best he could do with the arm attached to his injured shoulder was to put all of his weight on his elbow as he crushed the old man's windpipe beneath it. He couldn't do anything about the man's other hand so he thanked the divines that torturer was an old and feeble bastard. This maneuver would likely not have worked otherwise. Yorik's vision was a lot less blurry now and he could feel the struggling mass beneath him thrashing violently. The thrashing was not nearly violently enough however, and as the seconds ticked away, Yorik could feel the struggling begin to lessen until the old bastard stopped moving entirely. The inquisitor dropped the iron dagger in his hand and Yorik took it from him. He slowly moved his hand to the old man's neck to feel his pulse. There was none. He was dead. In the dim light Yorik could finally see the eyes beneath the hood staring back at him. They were a milky shade of green, and now they were empty and lifeless. The dead deserved a witness.

Yorik rolled off of the newest edition to the pile of dead bodies on the floor and clutched at the wound on his shoulder. It was throbbing pretty badly now. He felt cold. A loud boom came from above and he heard something crash back the way he came. _Sounds like the ceiling's collapsed, _he thought trying to ignore the pain all over his body. "This place is falling apart, I'm bleeding to death, and the only wine I've touched today is on the floor in a puddle upstairs. Dagon must be enjoying this, Boethiah too. Hells, I bet they're all watching this together from up on their pedestals." Yorik closed his eyes. They had finally gotten him. Years of fighting and clawing for survival and they had still gotten him. He was about to laugh, curse, or perhaps both when heard something stir over by the iron cages in the corner of the room.

In the still quiet that only death can bring a voice whispered to him from within the darkness: "I can fix that."


	4. Chapter 4: A Blade Dipped in Wine

**Chapter Four**

On the Northern edge of Cyrodiil tucked within the Jerall Mountains there resides the snowy city of Bruma. It's cold and frigid climate serves as a warning of the harsh conditions that lay before those wishing to travel across the border into the land of Skyrim. Within its walls there is a tavern that was once known as Olav's Tap and Tack. However, with the death of its original owner nearly two hundred years before it had slowly come to be known as simply 'The Tack.' It was a tiny ramshackle place then and it has remained a tiny ramshackle place ever since. Its new owner had decided to expand once upon a time, but the way it looked now it seemed that he had decided that perhaps it was too much work.

Yet despite its constant run down appearance it has maintained a pleasant air of coziness about it. It was the type of coziness that can be felt when one sits next to a warm hearth fire on a cold winter's night. It's the type of coziness that one feels with a good drink in one's hand after a hard day's work. Dusty bottles lined the wall behind the counter and the soft clinking of glasses could just be heard over the noise of conversation. A warm fire crackled in the hearth. Next to it a woman, a bard by trade, blew a merry tune with her flute.

It was in this cozy and ramshackle tavern that D, known to a few as Diana, sat sipping a glass of wine. She was clothed in a plain green dress with no embroidery. Along with it she wore a dark green cloak pulled around her shoulders for warmth. She wore fine black leather gloves on both hands and the hood of her cloak was pulled up over her head for the sake of privacy, but not so far over her face as to look menacing or suspicious. She had no tattoos or jewelry and she only wore the faintest hint of makeup to avoid looking world weary. She felt the most comfortable when she was easily forgettable. She had to be.

She was seated away in the darkest corner of the tavern she could find where she was also able to survey the floor in its entirety without being noticed. On the table before her sat a bottle of Surilie Brothers Wine. It was a good Vintage and she had gotten it at an even better price. Next to the bottle were two glasses, one of which was the glass that D was sipping and the other of which was filled but untouched. The untouched glass waited patiently for its owner's arrival as did D. She took another sip and let the liquid sit on her tongue for a moment, absorbing the taste, before swallowing.

On the other side of the tavern she watched the front door swing open, letting in the twilight of late afternoon and early evening. A man stepped inside and closed the door. He was Quintus Flavius, a local carpenter and also her client. He was a balding man of both Nord and Imperial descent. He was in his early forties, and he wore a thick light brown shirt and tan colored trousers. The boots on his feet were made for wear and looked as if they had been put through their paces. In addition to his clothes, he wore an expression of nervous anxiety. He looked about the room nervously until he spotted D and made his way over to her. He pulled up a chair and sat down across from her, his back facing the way he had come. The bard stopped playing her flute and left to take a short break.

"Good afternoon Mr. Flavius," D said calmly and professionally.

Quintus did not return the greeting. Instead he replied in a hushed tone, "Has it been taken care of?"

D smiled back at Quintus as she reached into her pouch and produced an object from within. She placed it on the table in front of him. It was a circular band made of gold and it was stained with small red blotches. A wedding ring. Quintus exhaled all at once. He had been holding his breath waiting for her to speak.

"So it's done, then. Rodard is dead," said Quintus, obviously relieved.

The man he spoke of was Rodard Ashsmith, a Breton from High Rock who was married to Elona Ashsmith, a former noble woman of the same origin. Rodard was also a carpenter. According to the talk on the street he had quite the skill and reputation. Before his demise, Rodard had become quite wealthy by ensuring low priced quality goods for all contracts, large or small. He had acquired for himself a good name, a respectable shop to practice his trade, and several up and coming apprentices to pass on his knowledge. In so doing he had made Quintus's life a living hell. Quintus's clientele had plummeted since Rodard arrived leaving him almost destitute. When Rodard Ashsmith had generously come to Quintus, offering him a job under his name, Quintus had taken it as an insult and spat in the man's face. The offer did not come a second time. _Nords…_ D thought sarcastically, though she knew he had more Imperial blood than Nord.

It went deeper than that of course. Since the Ashsmith's arrival in Bruma several years before, Quintus had hopelessly fallen for his rival's wife. With Rodard out of the way he planned to rush to the newly made widow's side. He would console her and then marry her, thereby absorbing all of Rodard's assets. Quintus would be on top with his new wife, and Rodard would be down below the earth, reduced to rotting skin and bones. D doubted that such a refined woman would give him the time of day.

"It is indeed, Mr. Flavius," D responded.

"Call me Quintus," Quintus said grinning. "Is this wine for me?"

"They are complements of my organization for your business. I had the pleasure of tasting it before you arrived. It's a good vintage." D sat back in her chair and took another sip of wine. Quintus looked from his glass to the bottle next to it.

"Surilie Brothers. You have good taste," Quintus said, eyes widening. He took the glass before him and raised it to his lips. He breathed in the scent of it smiling to himself, and took a long, passionate sip. "Ah," he said. "I haven't had such good wine since the late Ashsmith's passing." Quintus chuckled to himself at his little joke. D said nothing. When she had found him he was half drunk and surrounded by dozens of similar wine bottles. He had stunk of week old ale and body odor, but thankfully he seemed to have taken a bath before their meeting.

Quintus reached to his own belt this time. He had no weapons that D could see. With an audible clunk and jingling sound he plopped a sack of gold onto the table. "I admire your professionalism," he said. "Here's the other half of the payment for the job. Five hundred septims."

D untied the knot on the opening of the sack and peered inside. It was the right amount. People knew better than to cheat her guild. It looked as though there would be no complications. All she had to do now was conclude her business with this fool. Before she could speak, however, Quintus continued, "I love her, you know? Lady Ashsmith."

"Oh?" D tried to sound professional and interested, but inside she was getting bored.

"Oh yes. She is the jewel of High Rock. When she walks before a crowd they all stop whatever they're doing and just look at her. That, friend, is a woman." Quintus had that look in his eye as if viewing a far off place that none but him could see. "I'll give you another hundred septims if you tell me how you did it."

D's eyebrows rose and she paused for a moment as if considering his offer. "One hundred and fifty," she replied simply.

Quintus laughed out loud to himself spewing vaporous saliva into the air. He then tilted his head back, downed the rest of his wine, and smacked his glass onto the table all in one well practiced motion. As he was pouring another round he nodded at her, still chuckling.

"Very well," D said daintily wiping some of the saliva off of her face with a handkerchief.

"I killed three people these past few days." Without stopping she continued. "The first was a boy less than sixteen years old. He was living on the streets and was part of a local gang that has been making a name for itself by robbing and mugging those who have the misfortune of wandering into their back allies alone. I abducted him, poisoned him and brought him to a location I deemed satisfactory."

Quintus leaned in, interested and nodding. D did not pause. "I wanted to make Rodard's death look like a failed mugging attempt. Gangs and armed robbery are common place here, it seems. I needed the scene to be obvious in order to divert suspicion and avoid further investigation, so naturally Rodard had to kill one of the hypothetical attackers himself. Rodard carries with him a cudgel when he's out walking the streets of Bruma. I do my homework. I took the boy to the site and caved his head in with a similar tool. It was very messy work so I had to burn the clothes I wore afterwards." A half smile crept onto D's face and she quirked an eyebrow, "Blood, you know?"

Quintus's face had started to pale somewhat, and it seemed that he had forgotten how to blink. D continued as if she hadn't noticed him. "The rest was simple. Rodard closes his shop at five o'clock every day and takes the same route to the Jerall View Inn for a drink before going home to his wife. As he passed by I used a very small dart coated with a mixture of my own design to disorient him. As he began to stumble I kindly offered him my assistance and took him over my shoulder promising to find him a place to sit down. Instead I led him to the place I had prepared. By the time we arrived his hallucinations were so overwhelming that he didn't even notice when I stabbed him in the gut from behind and slit his throat. He was dead before he knew that he had been cut. I took a minute to position the bodies correctly, making sure that the blood was splattered in all the right places. Afterwards, I stripped him of his clothes and valuables all the while removing any traces of my presence. The whole ordeal took under half an hour. I am very good at what I do, sir. Are you satisfied?"

D held out her hand nonchalantly. Quintus stared at it and then shook his head suddenly to break himself out of his stupor. "Ah, um… Yes. Yes of course," he stuttered, placing another sack in her hands. D emptied its contents into the other sack and tied it shut. "I'm glad the old bastard got what he deserved…" He looked up at D, nervousness creeping back into his eyes. "Listen, I really need to be on my way…"

Before he could finish however, another man, a courier by the look of him, approached their table. The pair of them both looked up in surprise at the new comer. He nodded respectfully.

"Hello," he said looking at Quintus. "You're the one they call D?"

Quintus wore a look of confusion. He furrowed his brow and said, "There's no one at this table by that name, boy. I assure you."

D cut him off, "I believe that I am the one you are looking for. Your delivery is for me, courier."

"Good, good," he said cheerily. "I've got a letter for you. Don't know who it was from. Real creepy fella by the looks of him. He wouldn't say his name, but for an odd fellow in a black hood he sure paid me well enough to find you."

He handed her the letter and she tipped him from the bag of septims she had recently acquired. When the courier had pocketed the coin, he bowed and turned to walk away, whistling as he did so.

D looked down at the letter and opened it, her eyes scanning the words on the page. It was from Astrid, the closest thing to a mother she had these days. From what she read it seemed her business in Cyrodiil was at its end.

"Um, I really do have business that needs doing, so…" Quintus muttered, a hint of pleading in his voice.

D looked up at him coming out of her distraction. "Of course. Before you leave however, there is something I must first give you in order to conclude our business together."

"There's more?" Quintus said puzzled.

"Oh yes," D said calmly. She stowed the letter away in her dress and retrieved another. It was only one page, folded and unsealed. She held it out to him with her gloved hand. He took it from her, opened it, and froze. His eyes were wide.

"It seems that Lady Elona is very well informed," she said leaning back in her chair with two of its legs off the ground. Her voice was different this time. It was colder, but somehow laced with enjoyment. Quintus did not move. Instead D leaned forward again, her chair legs making an audible 'clack' as they struck the floor. She reached out, and plucked the letter from his hands, placing it on the table before him. On the sheet of parchment was written in very neat, curvy, handwriting two words above the seal of house Ashsmith: "_I know_." Quintus still did not move, though his eyes darted from one direction to the other. His hands were still fixed in place holding something that wasn't there.

"She found where I was staying and broke into my quarters while I pretended to sleep. Really who could sleep with all the noise she made. Amateur lock pickers really have no concept of stealth in my opinion. However, rather than trying to take my life and forcing the opposite from me, she used her better judgment and decided to make a deal." D folded the letter back up and tucked it gently into Quintus's shirt. She patted it twice and smiled at him.

"That letter was lightly coated in a very special concoction. It contains trace amounts of canis root, imp stool mushroom and a few other key ingredients to increase potency and to allow absorbency through the skin. You see, she didn't appreciate you hiring me to kill her husband. In fact, she paid me, up front, twice what you had promised on the condition that I kill you in return."

D smiled her best and widest smile. She reached out and tapped Quintus on the nose. "But I wouldn't do that to you, Quintus. You were my client first. So even though I may or may not have also poisoned your wine," D made an obvious winking gesture at him before continuing, "You can rest assured that I will provide you with the antidote to your misfortune."

She set a yellow tinted bottle down in front of him, then, with that smile still proudly displayed, she stood up gracefully and pulled her cloak around her. She shivered slightly and said, "Dress warmly. We wouldn't want you to catch your death." With that she pinched Quintus's cheek and walked away. On her way out she pointed at Quintus and told the owner of the tavern that he would be paying for the wine. The bard began to play her flute again.

Ten minutes later, Quintus was struggling furiously with numb hands to uncork the yellow tinted bottle. He still couldn't speak. After a few attempts and an equal number of near fumbles, he managed to pull it out with his teeth. With shaky hands he lifted the bottle to his lips, pouring its contents down his throat.

He felt a warm sensation in his stomach, and, sensing that he had survived, laughed the laugh of a man who had narrowly escaped death. He wasn't sure what had happened there at the end. It was his first time contacting the Dark Brotherhood after all. Even after being paid double to kill him, she had not. She had chosen to… chosen to… Something wasn't right. That warmth in his stomach felt like fire. He leaned over to the side falling out of his chair onto his hands and knees, knocking over the table, and spilling the wine. He heaved and vomited all over the floor. In the back of his mind he remembered the words she had spoken, "I killed three people these past few days." _Three people. _She had not mentioned the third.

The tavern had gone quiet. Its patrons looked at him curiously. Some wore smiles thinking that he had had a little too much to drink. It wasn't until he lay still on the floor that the people realized that not all was as it seemed. The yellow tinted bottle lay on the floor next to his face. Quintus's empty eyes stared back at it. Wine pooled around him. It was red.


End file.
